by STEPHEN on SEPTEMBER 13, 2008 · 644 COMMENTS

in INSPIRATIONAL STORIES, MORAL STORIES

A philosophy professor stood before his class with some items on the table in front of him. When the class began, wordlessly he picked up a very large and empty mayonnaise jar and proceeded to fill it with rocks, about 2 inches in diameter.

He then asked the students if the jar was full. They agreed that it was.

So the professor then picked up a box of pebbles and poured them into the jar. He shook the jar lightly. The pebbles, of course, rolled into the open areas between the rocks.

He then asked the students again if the jar was full. They agreed it was.

The professor picked up a box of sand and poured it into the jar. Of course, the sand filled up the remaining open areas of the jar.

He then asked once more if the jar was full. The students responded with a unanimous “Yes.”

“Now,” said the professor, “I want you to recognize that this jar represents your life. The rocks are the important things – your family, your partner, your health, your children – things that if everything else was lost and only they remained, your life would still be full. The pebbles are the other things that matter – like your job, your house, your car. The sand is everything else, the small stuff.”

“If you put the sand into the jar first,” he continued, “there is no room for the pebbles or the rocks. The same goes for your life. If you spend all your time and energy on the small stuff, you will never have room for the things that are important to you. Pay attention to the things that are critical to your happiness. Play with your children. Take your partner out dancing. There will always be time to go to work, clean the house, give a dinner party, or fix the disposal.”

“Take care of the rocks first – the things that really matter. Set your priorities. The rest is just sand.”

Mrs. Alverez was in her first few years of teaching in a bad part of the Bronx. She was a second grade teacher and she had a quiet boy, Carlos, who was struggling to learn to read in her class. Carlos was living with his single mother in a rundown apartment building in the neighborhood. His father, who had left his mother a few years before, lived in the same building but would ignore his son, acting as if he didn’t know him. He wouldn’t talk to him or eve nod hello. Needless to say, this devastated Carlos and the impact of it seemed to drive him even deeper into his shell. He had no confidence and his struggles at school added to his misery. Mrs. Alverez worked as hard as she could to help Carlos to read; but things weren’t going very well.

Towards the end of the year, Mrs. Alverez received her assignment for the coming year. She was given the opportunity to move to a position in another school. It was a good school and she was really excited.

One day after school, Carlos’ mother came to see Mrs. Alverez. She spoke in broken English, “You have helped my son Carlos this year. Thank you.”

Mrs. Alverez nodded modestly.

Carlos’ mother began again, “He still cannot read. I worry for him. If you would teach him again, I’m sure he would learn. I think he will disappear if he has to start again with a new teacher. I beg you Mrs. Alverez, please stay with my son. Teach him to read.”

Mrs. Alverez went home that night and thought about the plea of Carlos’ desparate mother. It was the plea of an immigrant mother who knew her son, and knew that so much of his life hinged on his ability to read. It would be easy for Carlos to fall through the cracks.

The next morning Mrs. Alverez asked her principal to let her move up a grade with Carlos’ entire class. He agreed. She called and politely turned down the transfer to her “dream job”.

The next year went by quickly. Mrs. Alverez taught as best she could, always giving Carlos a bit of extra attention. She hoped that things would “click” for this shy, frightened little boy. Carlos’ mother didn’t come back to the school that year.

Many, many years later, Mrs. Alverez was teaching at a school in another neighborhood in the Bronx. It was the end of the year and she stayed late to pack her things and clean out her classroom. When she was done she left the building to walk across the street to her car. As she got to the corner, she stumbled and dropped a sheaf of papers on the concrete sidewalk. A gust of wind scattered the papers in all directions. She sighed and without hesitation, she stooped to pick them up.

At that moment, two tall boys rounded the corner and saw her predicament. They both began chasing down and retrieving the papers that by now were all over the intersection. She sighed gratefully as the taller of the two boys approached her with her papers and a smile. “Thank you, young man. Thank you very much.”

Suddenly the young man’s smile disappeared. He murmured, “Mrs. Alverez?” In an instant they both recognized each other. It was Carlos, grown now, straight and tall and handsome. Without hesitation or self conciousness, they embraced. “Carlos, you’re so big. You’re a man now.” Carlos beamed with happiness.

The second boy, who had been chasing papers, interrupted, “Excuse me, you…you are Mrs. Alverez?” asked the boy incredulously. She looked at him, “Yes, I am, and do I know you?”

Carlos’ friend was very serious, “No, you don’t know me, Mrs. Alverez; but I know you. Last week, Carlos and I graduated from high school. Carlos was the valedictorian of the class. He gave the commencement speech in front of the whole school. He told us about a teacher named Mrs. Alverez that helped him learn to read and cared for him and inspired him. It was this teacher, Mrs. Alvarez, to whom he owed all his success. Are you THAT Mrs. Alverez?”

She stood there looking at the two young men. She began crying very sweet tears of joy. Carlos embraced her again. Carlos’ friend insisted on shaking her hand.”

Once upon a time a daughter complained to her father that her life was miserable and that she didn’t know how she was going to make it. She was tired of fighting and struggling all the time. It seemed just as one problem was solved, another one soon followed.

Her father, a chef, took her to the kitchen. He filled three pots with water and placed each on a high fire. Once the three pots began to boil, he placed potatoes in one pot, eggs in the second pot, and ground coffee beans in the third pot.

He then let them sit and boil, without saying a word to his daughter. The daughter, moaned and impatiently waited, wondering what he was doing.

After twenty minutes he turned off the burners. He took the potatoes out of the pot and placed them in a bowl. He pulled the eggs out and placed them in a bowl.

He then ladled the coffee out and placed it in a cup. Turning to her he asked. “Daughter, what do you see?”

“Potatoes, eggs, and coffee,” she hastily replied.

“Look closer,” he said, “and touch the potatoes.” She did and noted that they were soft. He then asked her to take an egg and break it. After pulling off the shell, she observed the hard-boiled egg. Finally, he asked her to sip the coffee. Its rich aroma brought a smile to her face.

“Father, what does this mean?” she asked.

He then explained that the potatoes, the eggs and coffee beans had each faced the same adversity– the boiling water.

However, each one reacted differently.

The potato went in strong, hard, and unrelenting, but in boiling water, it became soft and weak.

The egg was fragile, with the thin outer shell protecting its liquid interior until it was put in the boiling water. Then the inside of the egg became hard.

However, the ground coffee beans were unique. After they were exposed to the boiling water, they changed the water and created something new.

“Which are you,” he asked his daughter. “When adversity knocks on your door, how do you respond? Are you a potato, an egg, or a coffee bean? 

E

         He stopped in front of the door, glanced over the classroom, then slowly entered. His heavy footsteps attracted the children's attention. From the corners of their eyes, they stared at his shiny, black shoes with a curiosity that could not be satisfied.

          "Stand up," the class monitor called out and everyone stood up. Some of the pupils were leaning to one side, others were doubled over, 

some were standing on one foot, while still others were half-sitting and half-standing. One pupil continued munching on a piece of cake he 

had stuffed into his mouth.

          "Good morning, sir!" The classroom echoed with the voices of thirty-five pupils.

          "Good morning! Now sit down and take out your geography books." The narrow classroom was steaming hot and the overcrowded condition made

it even worse. Already a variety of odours was noticeable.

          Mr. Jamal approacahed his desk and sat down, all the while wiping away the pespiration. When the monitor saw that the teacher was seated, he came up to Mr. Jamal's desk.

          "During recess some boys were fighting, sir." "Who were they? From what class?"

          It was Wednesday and Mr. Jamal was the teacher on duty. Any matters relating to the pupils were his responsibility.

          "Our class, sir."

         "Who were they? Tell me their names."

         "Zahid and Dollah Udin, sir."

         Everyone in class stole a look at the two boys whose name had been mentioned, then they truend their attention back to Mr. Jamal. Sobs were heard from a corner of the room, and the pupils glanced around once more. Udin Dolah was crying.

         "Zahid and Dolah, come up front!" The teacher commanded in a threatening tone. The pupils could inteprete every inflection of his voice.

         Filled with fear and anxiety, the two boys who had been fishting went foward slowly. Zahid went first. Dollah followed, crying louder and louder.

          "Why were you fighting?"

          The two boys were silent. Only Dolah's sob could be heard. the other children hels their breath and looked to see what was going to happen. The room was silent. 

          "Why were you two boys fighting?"

          

"Dolah stole my pencil, sir."

         

          "That's not so, sir. he says my pencil is his."

         

          "Whose pencil is it."

         

          "Mine, sir," Zahid quickly replied.

         

          "Mine, sir," Dolah answered.

          "Dolah, bring the pencil here."

          Dolah rushed back to his desk and began looking in his bag for the pencil. When he found it, he stooped crying.

          "Okay," said Mr. Jamal, unconsciously twiddling with the pencil that he had just been given. It was an unusually long pencil. He kept blinking his eyes, trying to think of something to say.

          "All right, now. Is there any way that either of you can prove it's your pencil?"

          "Yes, sir. I craved something on it with a knife," Dolah answered confidently.

          "And you, Zahid?"

          "Err... there's something carved on it with a knife," Dolah answered confidently.

          "Zahid is just copying what I said, sir."

          "What did you carved on it, Zahid?"

          "Err... " He just shook his head.

          "Dolah?"

          "The letter 'D', sir. That'a my initial."

          "Correct, Dolah, it is your pencil. Zahid, you did wrong in three ways: you stole a pencil, lied about it and then you hit the boy you had stolen it from. So, you will be recieve three strokes of the rattan as your 'reward'."

          Zahid accepted his "reward" like a man, all the while staring wide-eyed at his teacher. Then he returned to his desk. His face was sad as he contemplate what had happened. Tears began to roll down his cheeks; he cried silently.

          Mr. Jamal was proud of himself because he had solved the problem with such wisdom. It was like a story from Tales of One Thousand and One Nights.

          Classroom activities returned to normal. Whenever the pupils were doing their written assignments, Mr. Jamal used this time to sit at his desk and read. He said he was preparing for and examination. While Mr. Jamal was absorbed in his own studies, Zahid would go over and glare fiercely at his enemy.

         

          "You are really great at lying!"

          "Hoorey for you! You got three strokes of the rattan! Hoorey for you!"

          "Hoorey! Hell! You stole my pencil and carved your initial on it. Then you claimed it was yours. You must hink you're pretty smart."

 

          For some reason - perhaps because he was upset - Zahid hit Dolah on the shoulder, knocking him sprawling against his desk. Dolah immediately let out a yell. Zahid was frightened, so he ran back to his own desk and sat there, pretending to be minding his own business.

          "What's going on?" Mr. Jamal asked, slamming hi book down on the desk.

          "Zahid hit me, sir." Then Dolah started crying because the teacher had seemed to sympathize with him.

           Mr. Jamal ordered Zahid to come up to his desk. Zahid walked slowly.

          "What did you do?"

          "He took my pencil and..."

          "I mean just now."

          "Nothing. He stole my pencil, so..."

          "I didn't ask that. I asked what did you do just now? Do you understand?"

          "Mr. Jamal pushed down Zahid's songkok. Dust flew everywhere. Zahid's head was almost swallowed up by his songkok, which went down down over his eyes and half of his nose.

          "You hit Dolah again, didn't you?"

          Zahid was somewhat startled,but the expression on his face didn't change.

          "He stole my pencil, then he scratched it all up and craved his initial on it."

          "I didn't ask you if he stole your pencil. Admit it - you hit Dolah!"

          The boy remained silent. Only his eyelids moved like a small house lizard eating whitewash off the wall. He had the look of detemination on his face.

          "All right, you good-for-nothing - now tell the truth!"

          Still Zahid remained as silent as a tree stump. He pretended to look ignorant and stupid.

          "I mean it - admit what you did!" threatened Mr. Jamal, while pulling on one of Zahid ears.

          Everyone in the class stopped working and began watching the drama that was taking place between their teacher and Zahid. Some of them were holding their breath.

          "I hit Dolah," Zahid confessed with a quiver in his voice. Dolah smiled triumphantly.

          "So that is what happened! Are you going to fo it again?" Then he pinched the boy's stomach and tugged at it, forcing Zahid foward. The pain was terrible. Zahid's face and ears turned red.

          "No," he answered, with a feeling of defeat.

          As Zahid returned to his desk, he glanced at Dolah with anger-filled eyes and jaws tightly clinched. He felt like taking Dolah by the necj and choking him.

          He could not stand to see that thief go free but there was nothing he could de since the teacher had believed Dolah. Zahid had really wanted that pencil - and he had worked hard to get it.

          It was a very special pencil, twice as long as an ordanary one; it had a curved plastic handle and a large eraser.

          He had wanted that unusual pencil since he first saw it in the bookstore. That was surely not wishing for too much! On his way home, he imagine how proud he would be to own such a pencil.

          "It would last a year," he whispered.

          The teacher never paid any attention to Zahid when he raised his hand in class and he was always too shy to speak out. But he never blamed Mr. Jamal. "I'm so small," he said softly, "who would ever take notice of me?"

          But perhaps that pencil would make a difference. If he raise it high enough, the teacher would take notice and ask him questions too.

          The eraser was huge. All of his friends could borrow the pencil, especially Siti, Zainab, Budin and Samad. He wouldn't care how many people borrowed it. In fact, the more who used it, the happier he would be.

          But how would he ever get it? He raced back to the bookstore. He had to ask a question.

          "Sir, how much is that pencil?"

          "It's not expensive, only fifty cents."

          Zahid shrugged his shoulders. he had only five cents. Still there was hoped. Perhaps his grandmother would have enough money.

          He ran home and told her how much he wanted the pencil.

          "Zahid, you already have a pencil."

          "But, Grandmother, it is so short."

          "What's wrong with a short pencil? We're not rich."

          "My teacher always grumbles and says that my pencil is as short as their in his nose."

          His grandmother did have a little money. She had the two dollars that would be needed to pay the fee for “Parents Day”, which would soon be held at the school.

          "Zahid, you don’t have school the day after tomorrow, do you?"

          "No, I don’t."

          "Why don’t you go along with your Uncle Teh when he taps the rubber trees? You could collect the scraps."

          Zahid agreed. If he earned more than fifty cents, he could buy a ruler as well. His old one was so chewed up that the edge looked like a saw blade.

          He bought the pencil. The first time he held his new possession, his hands trembled and he jumped with delight. He smiled broadly. He wanted to tell everyone about his good fortune.

          At school he proudly showed his pencil to several of his friends. Some shared his happiness; others envied him.

          A few days later, the highly-prized pencil was missing. Zahid was sad and told his closest friends what had happened, but it was obvious that they could do nothing to help him.

          The next day, he saw Dolah using a long pencil, just like the one he had lost. But his was a little different – the red paint had all been scrapped off.

          "Where did you get your pencil?" Zahid inquired.

          "My father bought it for me yesterday."

          "Why did you scrape all the paint off?"

          "So it wouldn’t look like yours."

          "Mine has disappeared."

          "That’s why I scrapped off the paint – so you wouldn’t say I stole yours."

          "Can I have a look at it?"

          "No."

          "Why is the eraser already worn down?"

          "I’ve been using it."

          "You couldn’t have used it that much."

          "I made a lot of mistakes last night."

          "That’s my pencil. I know it is."

          "No, it’s not. My father bought it for me."

          "How much did he pay for it?"

          "How should I know?"

          "I didn’t ask him."

          "If he had really bought it for you, you would have asked him."

          "I’m not going to listen to any more of your questions."

          "Just answer this one – if you got it yesterday, why is it already so short?"

          Dolah didn’t answer. He tried to run off, but Zahid grabbed him by the shoulder.

          "Did you steal my pencil?"

          "No!"

          "Yes, you did! That’s my pencil!"

          "It’s not either! It’s mine!"

          Zahid grabbed the pencil. Dolah grabbed it back from him, and he fell to the ground. Zahid immediately jumped up and started hitting Dolah. The other children came and stood around in a circle, cheering them on. The shouting grew louder and louder.

          Zahid had lost the fight because he was so small and he suffered a second defeat at the hands of the teacher when he returned to class.

 

          The schools bell rang. Zahid started for home as fast as he could. Dolah called out to him, but he didn’t pay any attention. He slammed the door with a bang. He was angry and hurting as well.

          Mr. Jamal also called him, but Zahid ran down the stairs and kicked over a flower pot. It broke and scattered all over the concrete floor. He raced off as fast as a wild stallion.

          Zahid stopped at the junction of the road. He looked around and hid in the weeds and grass beside the road. He was preparing an ambush for Dolah.

          The boy he had been waiting for passed by and Zahid sprang out at him like a hungry tiger. Dolah fell to the ground. Immediately, Zahid began hitting him, first in the stomach and then on the jaw.

          The other children tried to break up the fight but without success. The two boys kept on fighting. Zahid’s intense anger increased his strength and although he ended up bruised and bloody, he finally won.

          Dolah was completely exhausted. Zahid then opened Dolah’s bag. He looked for the pencil. He found it. Then he broke it into bits and threw the pieces into the river. Afterwards, he ran home as swiftly as lighting.

          As soon as he reached home, he went and hugged his grandmother around the neck. Then he buried his head in her lap, without saying a word. He felt sad and dejected, deeply hurt.

          That night, the small boy was feverish and often mumbled in his sleep about the pencil. Maybe it was because of his cuts and bruises. All night long his old grandmother kept watch over him; frequently tears would flood her eyes.

          The fever lasted three days. His short, plumpish body had shrivelled somewhat, causing him to look even smaller then before.

          When he was well, he returned to school, but he was no longer the quite Zahid he had once been. A change had come over him. If was as though the fever had created a new Zahid.

          Every few minutes, one of Mr. Jamal’s pupils would cry out, is despair, "Teacher, Zahid won’t let me do my work", "Teacher, Zahid pulled my hair", "Teacher, Zahid smeared ink on my nose", "Teacher, Zahid hit me",  "Teacher, Zahid this… Zahid that…".

          Once or twice Mr. Jamal warned him, "Zahid, stay in your seat," and then tried to ignore him. But after having his ears pounded by dozens of complaints, Mr. Jamal became angry and instructed Zahid to come up to his desk.

          "Zahid, you’ve turned into a little monster!"

          In reply, Zahid merely lifted his eyebrows and gazed off into space. He was really putting on a show. From time to time, he sniggered. No one could fathom his thoughts.

          "If you don’t have a book or a pencil, then go home. You are better off staying at home and sleeping. What’s the use of coming to schools if you’re are going to act like a brat?"

          The teacher’s threats didn’t bother him at all. His face remained expressionless and empty. Once in a while, he would stare spitefully at his teacher and wish, "If you were only my size, I’d take you on too, just as I did Dolah."

          "Stand here until school is out," Mr. Jamal commanded. Zahid headed for the corner, with his head down, but on his lips there was a smile. He strutted, as though mocking the command given by his teacher. Mr. Jamal became furious.

          When school was out, Dolah was waiting for him. But Zahid was in luck, because he happened to be carrying a piece wood to protect himself.

          "Don’t come any closer, or I’ll knock your head off!"

          Zahid kept threatening to hit Dolah with the piece of wood. Dolah was too frightened to come any closer, so he went to look for a piece of wood too. Meanwhile, Zahid ran home as fast as his feet could carry him.

          That afternoon, Zahid  asked his grandmother for some money. He told her it was for a book, but when he arrived at the store, his eyes caught hold of a long, red pencil. Suddenly, he felt sad again and tears rolled down his cheeks.

          No longer did he need a new book, or a pencil or even a ruler. None of the things could help him the most. At last he spotted it – a three inch pocketknife under the glass counter. He bought it right away.

          The knife would be just what he needed to keep Dolah away from him. And he might even get more used out of the knife than the pencil. Children are scared of knives, so he would make the blade as sharp as he study.

          He continued going to school, but not to study. His primary victims were children smaller than himself. He would laugh when they let out a cry or a scream.

          He dumped oil into the aquarium on the class nature table, pulled out the ferns and bean plants and then sliced up the preserved centipedes and snakes. 

          He enjoyed the feeling of accomplishment. He felt free at last. Things would even been better, if he were as big as Dolah. Yes, if he were that big, he would run amok at the slightest provocation.

          Zahid was often punished for what he did. But none of the punishments ever seemed to affect him and sometimes his bravery got next to Mr. Jamal. Perhaps, Zahid was too stubborn for his own good.

          For example, Zahid would often put his hands in his pocket while being punished, thinking perhaps the knife was some sort of magic charm giving him extra strength to endure the pain. His face revealed strong determination.

          On one occasion, Mr. Jamal sternly told him to return to his desk after his punishment, and he released his anger by stabbing his knife into the desk in front of him. The knife stood straight up. He imagined it was sticking in his teacher’s chest and a broad smile come across Zahid’s face.

          Mr. Jamal had seen it all, but he acted though he has not noticed a thing. “Only God knows what’s wrong with that boy,” he thought, “but my, how I’d like to tear him to bits!”

          Finally, Zahid cut Dolah with his knife. This was a serious offence, and as a result, he was taken to the school principal. Even before this happened, Mr. Jamal had already recommended that Zahid be sent to reform school.

          Dolah’s hands was quickly bandaged, and Zahid was taken into the principal’s office.

          For some while Mr. Berahim did nothing but look straight at Zahid. He was thinking of all the things that Mr Jamal had told him about Zahid. How he had broken the flower pot, how he had ruined the projects on the nature table, how he had disturbed all the other children, how he had become careless in his schoolwork, and finally, how he had deliberately cut Dolah with his knife.

          Several times Mr. Berahim coughed and placed his glass on the table. He was trying to think of the right thing to say to this small boy.

          At last he pretended to be looking for his pocket knife so he could sharpen his pencil.

         "Zahid, do you have a knife?" he asked with a smile.

         The boy shook his head. Mr. Berahim was certain that he would not give up the possession he prized so highly.

         "If you do, please lend it to me, so I can sharpen my pencil."

         Zahid didn’t know what to do. He was afraid of the principal. With a trembling hand, he reached down into the pocket of his pants. He handed the knife to Mr. Berahim who accepted it with a smile.

         "Is your knife sharp, Zahid?"

         The boy nodded his head.

         "What do you do with such a sharp knife?"

         Zahid shook his head. He didn’t quite understand what was going on.

         "Mr. Jamal told me that you used to be a good pupil."

         The boy was quite. Only his eyelids flickered. The rhythmic sound of children reading in the next room could be heard; they were reading as loudly as they could.

         "Lately you haven’t been a good student, have you?"

         Zahid shook his head again. 

         "Who is the best student in your class?"

         "Safian."

         "Would you like to be as smart as he is?"

         Zahid shook his head again. He was still afraid of the principal.

         "Why not?"

         Once more he shook hi head. His was really stubborn.

         "Does your grandmother ever give you any money?"

         The boy nodded. 

         "How much?"

        Sometimes only five cents."

        "Did you buy a book with the money?"

        Zahid shook his head.

        "Did you buy a pencil? An eraser."

        "No."

        "What did you buy with it?"

        Once he shook his head.

        "Did you buy a knife?"

        "Yes."

        "What for?"

        "Err, Dolah…” and he quickly shook his head gain.

         "What Dolah are you talking about?

         "The one in my class."

         "Are you afraid of him?"

         "Yes."

         "What did Dolah do to you?"

         "He stole my pencil, then…"

         Zahid couldn’t hold back his feelings any longer. He broke down and started crying. He remembered his grandmother, who had spoken to him in the same way that the principal is now doing. His grandmother was kind; the principal seemed just like her.

         He recalled the pencil that he had treasured to much, and hoe he had been forced to break hi, into pieces. He thought of Dolah and Mr. Jamal.

         "Don't worry, Zahid. I’ll look into the matter. But if Dolah is guilty, what will you do to him?"

         "Nothing, sir. I just want Mr Jamal to know that the pencil was mine, not Dolah’s."

         "Okay, you may return to your classroom."

         After the boy had left, Mr. Berahim want to see Mr Jamal. they talked about the pencil.

         The two boys were brought to the principal’s office. Mr. Berahim threats were successful. Dolah confessed w\everything; the full truth ha finally come to light.

          "Perhaps the whipping that he didn’t deserve brought back memories of a sad childhood experience." Mr Berahim explained to Mr. Jamal when they were alone.

          "A sad childhood experience?" Mr Jamal asked in astonishment.

          "You may not know. His father is terribly mean and Zahid hates him. He may have thought you as his father."

          "Oh now I see what you mean. Does he live with his mother?"

          "Oh! Now he lives with his grandmother. His parents are separated."

          "Do you think that his grandmother has spoiled him?"

          "There is no doubt about it"

          "The he’s not altogether to be blamed!"

          "That’s right. And it’s evident that he has turned his hatred upon you. You can understand  how that happened."

          "There is one thing still puzzling me, sir."

          "Why did Dolah cry so much and try so hard to convince me that the pencil was his?"

          "Because he wanted to cover up for what he had done."

          "I see."

 

          "But never mind. It’s all over now. I’m confident that you can do what is necessary to bring the situation back to normal again."

          Mr Jamal nodded once more. He had learned much form his experience.

          "People who are short and small are always very sensitive," Mr. Berahim said, with a twinkle in his eyes. He felt good about the whole thing, although this was by no means the first experience he had had.

          Mr Jamal attitude toward Zahid changed. He allowed him a little more freedom and would even let him get away with disturbing the other children form time to time. If Zahid didn’t have a pencil or paper, Mr Jamal would give him what he needed.

          At first, it was difficult for Zahid to make it up with his teacher, but kind word have a way of melting a person’s heart. “Whoever speaks to me like as she does must be a good person like grandmother," Zahid thought.

          Zahid was embarrassed to take on responsibility of being in charged of the classroom blackboard but Mr. Jamal had assigned him to do it and he had to accept it. There was no other choice.

          When it was a sorry time, Mr Jamal would have Zahid sit beside him. Sometimes he would use Zahid as an example of what children ought to be like.

          Then one day during recess, Mr Berahim asked Zahid to come to his office.

          "I want to give you a present."

          "Thank you very much, sir," he replies, his face all aglow.

          Mr. Berahim picked up two pencils just like the one that had been stolen. Both of them were red.

          As Zahid accepted the present, tears rolled down his cheeks. He couldn’t say for sure – it struck deep down in his heart. Then he smiled.

          After recess, Mr Jamal entered his classroom. He no longer had the habit of standing outside the door and looking before entering. He could always go straight in.

          When it was time for the children to do their written assignments, he couldn’t stop smiling as he noticed Zahid and Dolah using pencils just alike. “Children are really good at heart, if they are only given a chance,” he thought, his eyes moist with tears. 

One day a teacher asked her students to list the names of the other students in the room on two sheets of paper, leaving a space between each name..

Then she told them to think of the nicest thing they could say about each of their classmates and write it down.

It took the remainder of the class period to finish the assignment, and as the students left the room, each one handed in the papers.

That Saturday, the teacher wrote down the name of each student on a separate sheet of paper, and listed what everyone else had said about that individual.

On Monday, she gave each student his or her list. Before long, the entire class was smiling. "Really?" she heard whispered. "I never knew that I meant anything to anyone!" and, "I didn't know others liked me so much," were most of the comments.

No one ever mentioned those papers in class again. She never knew if they discussed them after class or with their parents, but it didn't matter. The exercise had accomplished its purpose. The students were happy with themselves and one another. That group of students moved on ...

Several years later, one of the students was killed in Viet Nam and his teacher attended the funeral of that special student. She had never seen a serviceman in a military coffin before. He looked so handsome, so mature.

The church was packed with his friends. One by one, those who loved him took a last walk by the coffin. The teacher was the last one to bless the coffin.

As she stood there, one of the soldiers who acted as pallbearer came up to her. "Were you Mark's math teacher?" he asked. She nodded: "yes." Then he said: "Mark talked about you a lot."

After the funeral, most of Mark's former classmates went together to a luncheon. Mark's mother and father were there, obviously waiting to speak with his teacher.

"We want to show you something," his father said, taking a wallet out of his pocket. "They found this on Mark when he was killed. We thought you might recognize it."

Opening the billfold, he carefully removed two worn pieces of notebook paper that had obviously been taped, folded and refolded many times. The teacher knew without looking that the papers were the ones on which she had listed all the good things each of Mark's classmates had said about him.

“Thank you so much for doing that," Mark's mother said. "As you can see, Mark treasured it."

All of Mark's former classmates started to gather around. Charlie smiled rather sheepishly and said, "I still have my list. It's in the top drawer of my desk at home."

Chuck's wife said, "Chuck asked me to put his in our wedding album."

"I have mine too," Marilyn said. "It's in my diary"

Then Vicki, another classmate, reached into her pocketbook, took out her wallet and showed her worn and frazzled list to the group. "I carry this with me at all times," Vicki said and without batting an eyelash, she continued: "I think we all saved our lists"

That's when the teacher finally sat down and cried. She cried for Mark and for all his friends who would never see him again.

The density of people in society is so thick that we forget that life will end one day. And we don't know when that one day will be.

So please, tell the people you love and care for, that they are special and important. Tell them, before it is too late.

lady. I believed in unicorns then. I am nearly twenty now and because of

her I still believe in unicorns.

My little town, hidden deep in its own valley, was an ordinary

place, pretty enough but ordinary. I know that now. But when I was seven

it was a place of magic and wonder to me. It was my place, my home. I

knew every cobbled alleyway, every lamp post in every street. I fished in

the stream below the church, tobogganed the slopes in winter, swam in

the lake in the summer. On Sundays my mother and father would take me

on walks or on picnics, and I’d roll down the hills, over and over, and end up

lying there on my back, giddy with joy, the world spinning above me.

I never did like school though. It wasn’t the school’s fault, nor the

teachers’. I just wanted to be outside all the time. I longed always to be

Michael Morpurgo

Born in 1943 in Hertfordshire, UK, Michael was evacuated to

Cumberland during the last years of the war, later moving to

Essex. After university and a brief spell in the army, Michael

worked as a teacher for ten years, before leaving to set up

‘Farms for City Children’ with his wife Clare. The charity, which

now runs three farms, aims to provide children from inner city

areas with experience of the countryside. In 1999 the couple

were awarded MBEs in recognition of their services to youth.

Michael now lives on a farm in Devon and describes himself

as “oldish, married with three children, and a grandfather six

times over.”

Michael Morpurgo is one of the greatest storytellers for

children writing today and has written over one hundred

books, including "The Wreck of the Zanzibar", "The Butterfly Lion", "Kensuke’s Kingdom" and

"Private Peaceful", all of which have won major literary awards including the Smarties Book

Prize, the Whitbread Award, the Writer’s Guild Award and the Children’s Book Award.

From 2003-2005, Michael was the Children’s Laureate, a role designed to reward a lifetime’s

contribution to children’s literature and to highlight the importance of children’s books.

In 2006, he was also awarded an Order of the British Empire (OBE), in recognition of his

services to literature.

20-26 April 2009

running free up in the hills. As soon as school was over, it was back

home for some bread and honey – my father kept his own bees

on the hillside – then off out to play. But one afternoon my mother

had other ideas. She had to do some shopping in town, she said,

and wanted me to go with her.

“I hate shopping,” I told her.

“I know that, dear,” she said. “That’s why I’m taking you to

the library. It’ll be interesting. Something different. You can listen to

stories for an hour or so. It’ll be good for you. There’s a new librarian

lady and she tells stories after school to any children who want to

listen. Everyone says she’s brilliant.”

“But I don’t want to listen,” I protested.

My mother simply ignored all my pleas, took me firmly by

the hand and led me to the town square. She walked me up the

steps into the library. “Be good,” she said, and she was gone.

I could see there was an excited huddle of children

gathered in one corner. Some of them were from my school, but

they all looked a lot younger than me. Some of them were infants!

I certainly did not want to be with them. I was just about to turn

and walk away in disgust when I noticed they were all jostling each

other, as if they were desperate to get a better look at something.

Since I couldn’t see what it was, I went a little closer. Suddenly

they were all sitting down and hushed, and there in the corner I

saw a unicorn. He was lying absolutely still, his feet tucked neatly

under him. I could see now that he was made of carved wood and

painted white, but he was so lifelike that if he’d got up and trotted

off I wouldn’t have been at all surprised.

Beside the unicorn and just as motionless, just as neat,

stood a lady with a smiling face, a bright flowery scarf around

her shoulders. When her eyes found mine, her smile beckoned

me to join them. Moments later I found myself sitting on the

floor with the others, watching and waiting. When she sat down

slowly on the unicorn and folded her hands in her lap I could feel

expectation all around me.

“The unicorn story!” cried a little girl. “Tell us the unicorn

story. Please.”

She talked so softly that I had to lean forward to hear her.

But I wanted to hear her, everyone did, because every word she

spoke was meant and felt, and sounded true. The story was about

how the last two magic unicorns alive on earth had arrived just too

late to get on Noah’s ark with all the other animals. So they were

left stranded on a mountain top in the driving rain, watching the

ark sail away over the great flood into the distance. The waters rose

and rose around them until their hooves were covered, then their

legs, then their backs, and so they had to swim. They swam and

they swam, for hours, for days, for weeks, for years. They swam for

so long, they swam so far, that in the end they turned into whales.

This way they could swim easily. This way they could dive down

to the bottom of the sea. But they never lost their magical powers

and they still kept their wonderful horns, which is why there are to

this day whales with unicorn’s horns. They’re called narwhals. And

sometimes, when they’ve had enough of the sea and want to see

children again, they swim up onto the beaches and find their legs

and become unicorns again, magical unicorns.

After she had finished no one spoke. It was as if we were

all waking up from some dream we didn’t want to leave. There were

more stories, and poems too. Some she read from books, some she

made up herself or knew by heart.

Then a hand went up. It was a small boy from my school,

Milos with the sticky-up hair. “Can I tell a story, miss?” he asked. So

sitting on the unicorn he told us his story.

One after another after that they wanted their turn on the

magical unicorn. I longed to have a go myself, but I didn’t dare. I was

frightened of making a fool of myself, I think.

The hour flew by.

“What was it like?” my mother asked me on the way home.

“All right, I suppose,” I told her. But at school the next day I

told all my friends what it was really like, all about the unicorn lady –

everyone called her that – and her amazing stories and the fantastic

magical storytelling power of the unicorn.

They came along with me to the library that afternoon. Day

after day as word spread, the little group in the corner grew until

there was a whole crowd of us. We would rush to the library now

to get there first, to find a place close to the unicorn, close to the

unicorn lady. Every story she told us held us entranced. She never

told us to sit still. She didn’t have to. Each day I wanted so much

to sit on the unicorn and tell a story, but still I could never quite

summon up the courage.

20-26 April 2009

One afternoon the unicorn lady took out from her bag a

rather old and damaged-looking book, all charred at the edges. It

was, she told us, her very own copy of The Little Match Girl by Hans

Christian Andersen. I was sitting that day very close to the unicorn

lady’s feet, looking up at the book. “Why’s it been burnt?” I asked her.

“This is the most precious book I have, Tomas,” she said. “I’ll

tell you why. When I was very little I lived in another country. There

were wicked people in my town who were frightened of the magic

of stories and of the power of books, because stories make you think

and dream; books make you want to ask questions. And they didn’t

want that. I was there with my father watching them burn a great

pile of books, when suddenly my father ran forward and plucked a

book out of the fire. The soldiers beat him with sticks, but he held

on to the book and wouldn’t let go of it. It was this book. It’s my

favourite book in all the world. Tomas, would you like to come and

sit on the unicorn and read it to us?”

I had never been any good at reading out loud. I would

always stutter over my consonants, worry over long words. But now,

sitting on the magic unicorn, I heard my voice strong and loud. It

was like singing a song. The words danced on the air and everyone

listened. That same day I took home my first book from the library,

Aesop’s Fables, because the unicorn lady had read them to us and

I’d loved them. I read them aloud to my mother that night, the first

time I’d ever read to her, and I could see she was amazed. I loved

amazing my mother.

Then one summer morning, early, war came to our valley

and shattered our lives. Before that morning I knew little of war. I

knew some of the men had gone to fight, but I wasn’t sure what for.

I had seen on television tanks shooting at houses and soldiers with

guns running through the trees, but my mother always told me it

was far away and I wasn’t to worry.

I remember the moment. I was outside. My mother had

sent me out to open up the hens and feed them, when I looked up

and saw a single plane come flying in low over the town. I watched

as it circled once and came again. That was when the bombs began

to fall, far away at first, then closer, closer. We were all running then,

running up into the woods. I was first frightened to cry. My father

cried. I’d never seen him cry before, but it was from anger as much

as fear.

Hidden high in the woods we could see the tanks and the

soldiers all over the town, blasting and shooting as they went. A few

hours later, after they had gone, we could hardly see the town any

more for the smoke. We waited until we were quite sure they had all

gone, and then we ran back home. We were luckier than many. Our

house had not been damaged. It was soon obvious that the centre

of town had been hardest hit. Everyone seemed to be making their

way there. I ran on ahead hoping and praying that the library had

not been bombed, that the unicorn lady and the unicorn were safe.

As I came into the square I saw smoke rising from the roof

of the library and flames licking out of the upper windows. We all

saw the unicorn lady at the same moment. She was coming out of

the library carrying the unicorn, staggering under its weight. I ran

up the steps to help her. She smiled me her thanks as I took my

share of the weight. Her eyes were red from the smoke. Between us

we set the unicorn down at the foot of the steps, and she sat down

exhausted, racked with a fit of coughing. My mother fetched her a

glass of water. It must have helped because the coughing stopped,

and all at once she was up on her feet, leaning on my shoulder for

support.

“The books,” she breathed. “The books.”

When she began to walk back up the steps I followed her

without thinking.

“No, Tomas,” she said. “You stay here and look after the

unicorn.” Then she was running up the steps into the library, only to

reappear moments later, her arms piled high with books. That was

the moment the rescue began. People seemed suddenly to surge

past me up the steps, and into the library, my mother and father

amongst them.

It wasn’t long before a whole system was set up. We

children made two chains across the square from the library to the

café opposite, and the books everyone rescued went from hand

to hand, ending up in stacks on the floor of the café. The fire was

burning ever more fiercely, the flames crackling, smoke billowing

now from the roof. No fire engines came – we found out later

the fire station had been hit. Still the books came out. Still the fire

burned and more and more people came to help, until the café was

filled with books and we had to use the grocer’s shop next door.

The moment came when there were suddenly no more

20-26 April 2009

books to pass along and we all wondered why. Then we saw

everyone coming out of the library, and last of all the unicorn lady,

helped by my father. They came slowly down the steps together,

their faces smudged and blackened. The unicorn lady sat down

heavily on the unicorn and looked up at the burning building. We

children all gathered around her as if waiting for a story.

“We did it, children,” she said. “We saved all we could, didn’t

we? I’m sitting on the unicorn so any story I tell is true because we

believe it can be true. We shall build our library up again just as it

was. Meanwhile we shall look after the books. Every family can take

home all the books they can manage and care for them. And when

in one year or two or three we have our new library, then we shall all

bring back our books, and we shall carry the magic unicorn inside

and we shall all tell our stories again. All we have to do is make this

story come true.”

So it happened, just as the unicorn lady said it would. Like

so many families in the town we took home a wheelbarrow full of

books and looked after them. Sure enough the library was rebuilt

just the same as the old one, only by now everyone called it the

Unicorn, and we all brought our books back just as the unicorn lady

had told it in her story.

The day the library opened, because I had helped carry the

unicorn out, I got to carry him back up the steps with the unicorn

lady, and the whole town was there cheering and clapping, the

flags flying, the band playing. It was the proudest and happiest day

of my life.

Now, all these years later, we have peace in our valley. The

unicorn lady is still the town librarian, still reading her stories to the

children after school. As for me, I’m a writer now, a weaver of tales.

And if from time to time I lose the thread of my story, all I have to

do is go and sit on the magic unicorn and my story flows again. So

believe me, I believe in unicorns. I believe in them absolutely.